Brett Reeves, Writing Sample Written for a Nonfiction Book on Financial Crime Copyright, Obsidian Press

Brett Reeves, Writing Sample Written for a nonfiction book on financial crime Copyright, Obsidian Press Frankensteins of Fraud CHAPTER 7 “The Antar Complex: Eddie Antar” There’s a scene in the movie Splash when the mermaid, played like a fish out of water by Darryl Hannah, wanders into Bloomingdale’s. Unsure about her new surroundings, the winsome blonde parks herself in front of a wall of television sets. A man’s face on 20 screens is raging while the mermaid tests the glass with her long, white fingers. “I’M INSANE!” the man yells. He rends his clothes. “HOW CAN I OFFER THESE PRICES?” His cheeks are inflamed. He’s gyrating his hands and whiplashing his neck. “BECAUSE I’M CRAZY EDDIE! I’M TOTALLY NUTS! I’M INSA-A-A-A-A-ANE!” The mermaid is frightened. In his heyday Crazy Eddie became a fixture of the tristate area, rivaled only by Lady Liberty herself for instant recognition. Everybody knew Crazy Eddie. Crazy Eddie’s Electronics Emporia commanded the market for stereos, CB radios, telephones, televisions, not to mention appliances and jewelry, plus the very latest in trendy gadgets, such as personal computers with 512 kilobytes of internal memory. Crazy Eddie’s Record and Tape Asylums housed acres of entertainment choices. If it ran electronically Eddie sold it for the cheapest prices known to man. But Crazy Eddie was a fake. Literally. That face in the pixels belonged to a balding Irish actor named Jerry Carroll. The Eddie Antar monster was someone else entirely, a black-bearded misanthrope with an ego as large as his bankroll. Not to malign Carroll’s performance, but there was always a bit too much in Crazy Eddie’s histrionics. Somehow you knew that this guy wasn’t just some storeowner with a frustrated artist inside. Crazy Eddie commercials were more campy than Batman reruns. He wasn’t insane, he was just goofy. Eddie Antar, on the other hand, the real Eddie.... From Aleppo to Flatbush At 13 Eddie was cutting classes and spending his afternoons in shops around the Manhattan Port Authority Terminal hawking T-shirts, home appliances, and cheap audio equipment. It was 1961. The air on 42nd Street hummed with traffic and herds of people shouting, laughing, going places, looking for kitchen gadgets, love, and a decent knish for 15 cents. New Yorkers, and Americans in general, had never known such wealth as they were enjoying in the post-war boom, and Eddie plugged into this noisy energy. Every exchange sizzled in his hands. He saw each person stepping his way as his next chance to shine, the opening strains of a show in which Eddie danced, dazzled and, if necessary, harangued his customer into a purchase. If little Eddie Antar didn’t sell you something, you weren’t buying. Eddie was hell-bent to conquer the world, or at least the strip of it running from Brooklyn to Manhattan. He styled himself a Lord of Flatbush, donning a black leather jacket and oiling his hair to make the thick locks shine like ebony. “Eddie was like...the Fonz,” a companion recalled. After a good quarter-hour’s worth of combing, his head appeared to be crowned by rows of insulated wire. Like his father, Eddie wasn’t very tall; in fact, none of the Antar family stands above 5' 10''. But Eddie lifted weights, talked tough, and backed it up with his fists if he had to. A swollen eye, puffed and purple, he displayed like a trophy. He gained a reputation for arranging back-alley deals and handling merchandise of questionable conveyance. One of the lawyers who later helped put Eddie in jail, a man named Howard Sirota, recalled, “I grew up in the same neighborhood as Eddie Antar, and I knew that he was a crook. I had friends who worked for him and who had done business with him. I knew who Eddie’s friends were. They were the guys in the neighborhood whom I tried to avoid.” If Eddie sparked fear and loathing on certain corners, others saw him as the inspired scion of an honorable clan. Eddie’s father, Sam M. Antar, had opened his first store at the age of 19. With a sandy complexion and a thick head of dark, curly hair, Sam was known for his rambunctious disposition. He stood about 5' 7'', which combined with his ready smile to project a boyish air, a quality Sam would carry into his dotage. Sam was the first Antar born in the U.S., after Murad and Terah Antar, Eddie’s grandparents, moved here from Aleppo, Syria. One of the world’s oldest cities, Aleppo was known for ages as the most important trading link between the Far and Middle East, a place where Jews like Murad and Terah worked in their market stalls alongside Arabs, Turks, and Egyptians. Murad Antar liked to remind his sons of a proverb: “An Aleppine can sell even a dried donkey skin.” It was no accident, then, that Sam Antar became a retailer and expected for his sons to follow him into the trade. New York’s Syrian community, which spread from 20th Avenue and 60th Street throughout the Bensonhurst area of Brooklyn, was filled with families who made their living in wholesaling, retailing, or reselling. Eventually the neighborhood became known as Aleppoin- Flatbush, and its citizens were called S-Ys (pronounced ess-wie) for the first two letters in the word Syrian. Syrian Jews were often treated harshly by New York’s Ashkenazi Jews. The Ashkenazis, who came mainly from Germany and Eastern Europe, looked askance at the darker skinned S-Ys. Some Ashkenazis called the Syrians dirty Arabsche Yidden (Arab Jews). “We had a name for the Ashkenazi, too,” Sam Antar remembers. “We called them Yids, or more usually, we called them Jay-Dubs, for the first and last letter of the word JeW. To mock them like.” S-Ys maintained a strict Talmudic religious observance and brought their sons into the family business, usually some type of retail operation, such as linen shops or gift shops, or wholesaling inventory to these shops. After a stint in the Combat Engineers during World War II, Sam returned to Brooklyn and married Rose Tawil, whose father owned several clothing stores. He and Rose bought a beauty of a four bedroom home on East Third Street, between Avenues T and U. Economically the neighborhood ran the gamut from the very rich to the just-getting-by. A $5,000 house sat next to a $150,000 house. In later years, the better-off families, including the Antars, would move to the Jersey coast. But in those days, a former resident recalls, “It was more important to be near the community, regardless of how much money you were making.” The families of Aleppo-in-Flatbush centered their lives around the Shar’aree Zion (Portals of Zion) Congregation, a massive rotunda auditorium whose grandeur spoke to the Aleppine Jews’ religious devotion. Though Sam Antar was constantly on the go, tending retail concerns in Detroit, Kansas City, Charlotte, Tucson and Bakersfield, he never began a day without first giving prayers at shul. Besides the gift shops he started with, Sam eventually owned discount department stores, costume jewelry concessions, and clothing stores across the country. Even so, Sam kept the Sabbath in whatever town he happened to find himself, ceasing work of every sort from Friday sundown until Saturday night, refusing to perform simple calculations or to flip on a light switch because of the Talmud’s commandments not to work and to “light no fires” during Sabbath. Sam and Rose began their family in 1948 with a son, Eddie, who was named after Rose’s father. A growing household didn’t change things much for Sam. He continued his nomadic life, chain- smoking Chesterfields and downing barrels full of coffee. After Eddie, Rose brought a girl, Ellen, and two more boys, Mitchell and Allen, into Sam’s house. The kids saw their father only sporadically. But they had no doubt they still were part of a family. As the most successful of Murad’s offspring, Sam was de facto head of the extended Antar network. Adjmis, Tawils, Gindis, and Shaloms tramped through Sam and Rose’s Brooklyn home, which became a kind of headquarters for family business. “You had your business connections with your own people,” one Antar remembers. “Often we got into retail and different ventures because we couldn’t get jobs elsewhere. Other business people, other Jews even, wouldn’t work with us. So we took care of our own.” Doing business with “your own” made it easier to fudge receipts, taking advantage of all the cash that rolls each day through a retail operation. Sam has freely admitted, with a gleam in his eye and a whatever roll of his shoulders, “I skimmed millions and millions of dollars. But I never lied, I never cheated anybody. I cheated the government maybe, but not anybody. I always worked hard.” No one ever accused an Antar of dragging his feet. The entire family bounces with the energy of people born to sell. They’ve pushed everything from trinkets to air conditioners, and if they could buy a donkey skin at wholesale, chances are they would send you home with one. As Sam’s boy Eddie became a young man, he more than fulfilled the family tradition. Neighborhood admirers nicknamed him “Kelso,” after a famous race horse. Eddie made it his business to live up to the name, strutting his stuff from Ocean Parkway straight into Times Square.

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